


Seasalt and Fireflies

by Lumakiri, starsplash



Series: A Life Lived with Marin [4]
Category: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, He's Ravio's adopted son and we love him., Legend does not approve, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Soft n fluffy for the soul, Sorrel has a boyf, Unauthorised 3am Window Climbing, either way, is that a tag?, they’re in love your honour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumakiri/pseuds/Lumakiri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsplash/pseuds/starsplash
Summary: Sorrel, daughter of Legend and Marin, is a young woman stifled by her father's overprotectiveness. Felix, adopted son of Ravio, is her childhood friend, and he's been in love with her for years. One stormy summer evening, Sorrel realises she loves him and she's been a fool all these years.Of course, love is not easy when the Hero of Legend is your father, and you've snuck out your house in the middle of the night.
Series: A Life Lived with Marin [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796170
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Seasalt and Fireflies

**Author's Note:**

> This was me and Starsplash/Julian's first collaborative writing effort, and it was amazing. Unfortunately, the pieces that would have given this a little more context will remain unfinished, but this piece deserves to see the light of day for what it is, and how proud we are of it. Thank you to those who supported us, and who still do.
> 
> Note from Julian: thank you to everyone who’s supported us, and this was honestly so much fun to write. I poured my heart and soul into this soft boy :’) I likely won’t write again for a while, a lot of the fics will remain on hiatus for a long time. Either way, enjoy!

It’s the middle of the night but she’s wide awake. The dream is hot and heavy on her eyelids, still, and it drips off the end of her nose in a cold and epiphanic sweat. Her nose; her lungs; all she can breathe is cinnamon.

All she can taste is him, and it hits her all at once like a freezing cold rainstorm.

The butterfly weights in her stomach when she looked at him made sense. The feeling of caring about him; but not a little brother, not like Elian or Toby; made sense. The way her heart fluttered when she danced with Felyne - it was just an echo of the slow tremble it made when he gave her that look of adoration.

He’s loved her for years, and she didn’t even acknowledge it.

She thinks she might’ve loved him for years, but that thought is too much, too difficult, too hard to form in her mind and mouth and make sense of. The night is too hot, too thick. Her head is full of cinnamon and golden-brown and a terrifying new perspective.

It's like a jigsaw puzzle slowly clicking into place and by the three, she hates herself. She can picture his face the morning after the festival; clear in her mind as if it was yesterday. How did she not realise it, how didn't she see the pain her actions had caused? How had she been so blind for this long? 

She owes him an apology. Now. At least. 

Sorrel throws herself out of bed, hair a frizzy sleep entangled mess. Her father's a light sleeper and even though _she's an adult now_ he won't be pleased at her creeping out at all hours. She slides up her window frame, hitches her nightdress up around her waist and climbs onto the apple tree outside. The night air is thick around her, buzzing with insects and anticipation. She's trembling as she scales the tree barefoot onto the ground below, though she's done it a hundred times before. Her toes touch cool grass and she's off toward the house by the forge, a distant speck of light in the darkness. 

Felix is awoken by a rapping sound against his window, and upon seeing the darkness outside he's ready to ignore it; probably just the twins trying to get him to come let them into the forge for late night shenanigans. As his eyes drift closed again, he hears a distant voice and he is awake now forcefully; it's _her._

He's stumbling out of bed when his window is yanked open and she pulls herself onto the ledge, eyes wide and breathless. The curls that frame her face like that of a portrait are plastered there by perspiration and he runs over to assist. She's hanging from his windowsill, feet scrambling for purchase against the wall, tangled in the ivy that crept up the side of the house. Sorrel meets his gaze, opens her mouth to speak and then stops as if frozen. Her face flushes red and she promptly loses her grip. Felix is there before his brain has time to catch up to what his body is doing; he grabs her wrists and tries to haul her through the window before she can fall. They tumble backwards onto his bedroom floor, his hands around her waist, and then there is hot, uneasy silence as they stare at each other. 

Sorrel feels like she's looking at him for the first time - which is ridiculous, the rational side of her brain protests, she only saw him yesterday - but seeing him in a whole new light like this, it’s something she wasn’t expecting but it was so viscerally _present_ all the same. The candlelight licks up his jaw, which is losing its baby-fat, and makes the locks of his brunette hair glow gold where they fall past his ears. _Gold_ is the colour of him in her mind, gold and orange and blue, spiced and warm and ever constant. He's always been there with her, through everything. She's never noticed his eyes quite like this before either - they’re illuminated in this light, and the flecks in his irises remind her of rust and amber and embers from a fireplace. He’s warm, and suddenly she feels very very cold despite the midsummer heat - she needs to be closer to him, needs his warmth. Her fingers twist in his hair - when did they get there? - and scarlet creeps over his features. 

"I - is everything okay? Sorrel?” His voice is rough, and it wavers with an uncertainty that Sorrel knows well. It’s almost endearing. 

"I need to - We need to -" The words aren't coming; they sit uncomfortably in the back of her throat, and she cannot force them out. She's aware of where exactly his hands are and the heat from him is turning the pit of her stomach with giddiness. The way he's looking at her, with thinly veiled hope and adoration and longing and _fear_ breaks her. "I'm sorry. For everything." She feels the words spill from her mouth and it’s numb, it’s a realisation that she finally said what needed to be said.

"Sorry?" His brow furrows in confusion and it's _adorable._ "What have you done to apologise for? What's happened? Are you okay?" 

"It's not what I've done, it's what I _haven't done_." How does she say it? How can she say it, when she doesn't even know what she feels? Maybe - maybe she just has to get it out of her system and then things will go back to making sense. "Kiss me."

Felix looks like he's been hit in the face, his mouth hangs slightly open and she can feel his heartbeat quicken, his chest pressed so close to hers. It’s the quick pace of a rabbit’s heart, and the conflicting emotions she sees in his eyes are almost enough to convince her to back away. She doesn’t, though; if there is anything she prides herself on, it’s her stubborn nature. It’s too late to back down now, after all. 

"Firefly - are you, are you sure?" His name for her makes her chest lurch. His tone is of disbelief and uncertainty but his gaze is full of hunger and need. Of course he still asks for her permission, after _she's_ told him to do it. That's Felix. 

"Don't you want to?" She bit her lip, panic flaring through her like a knife. What if she's wrong, what if this is all a mistake, what if he doesn't feel for her anymore? She’s too aware of just how close they are, and Felix’s hands are on her waist and she can _feel them,_ and he looks good in this lighting, and she’s overwhelmed by the smell of cinnamon, of spices, and it’s a risk she wants to take, but it all depends on him. 

"Of course I _want_ to," he breathes, and Sorrel feels it on her cheek. He's wanted nothing else for as long as he can remember. Part of him idly wonders if he's dreaming - it doesn’t seem fully real, it’s all a haze but he sees her in full clarity. "I just want to make sure this is what you want." For her sake, but also because he doesn't believe she's really here for him and he doesn't want to get hurt. Not by her. 

It’s warmer here, against her, than it has been all summer. Warmer than days in the forge or out in the sun, and he feels a shudder down his spine at the way she lowers her eyes. His left hand leaves her waist and gently, tentatively, strokes her cheek. 

"Please." Her voice is low and pleading and anxious. Sorrel never _asks_ for anything. She commands, she acts, she doesn't _ask_. 

"Why me?" Felix has to know. He can't be her second choice, he can't do this if he's not absolutely what she wants and he can remember the joy and excitement on her face when she was dancing with _that girl_ and he - he can't believe it's him she wants after all these years. That doesn't happen to him. The gods don't smile upon him like that. He's fighting with the urge to just do it, and she’s so much more _real_ up close, and he knows he has everything to lose. But he burns here, under the intensity of her gaze - it’s indecipherable, and he wants to say more, he wants to say _yes, goddesses, yes, please -_ but it’s not that easy. 

"Because," she pauses and the words begin to tumble from her, the dream she woke up from not an hour ago fresh in her consciousness. "Because you're kind, and clever, and gentle and - you smell of cinnamon and warmth and you're _incredible_ and I've been so fucking _blind_ for so long." She turns her face away from him. This was a mistake. She shouldn't have come here like this, right now, and corner him into this."I don't know what I'm feeling, 'Lix, but I just thought- I'm sorry."

There’s room for mistakes, Felix thinks, and the melancholy of night that hasn’t quite set in yet. He turns her face with a tender touch, a hesitance he would not normally have, and his heart is thrumming in his chest and he feels _alive._ Her eyes are wide open and he can’t tell if it’s shock, but the intensity of the fire that resides within them is enough. “Stop me if you don’t want this,” he says quietly, and it’s steady, it’s a whisper in a room full of tense air and something more than that. His chest rises and falls with every breath and the pounding is the storm within him, and his hands find room on either side of her face and he stops listening to his doubts. 

He lets go of his fears and he kisses her blindly, and the shudder of his spine reaches his heart. The tickle of her hair against the backs of his hands and the tense realisation of just _how close they really are_ isn’t enough to make him falter, and it’s _warm_ like the forge and the sun and the sand beneath bare feet and it’s a gasp without air. Her lips are impossibly soft and the feeling of her overwhelms him; when she shuts her eyes, he feels her eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and it’s almost too much. 

This is what he gets for wishing, for longer than he can remember; he doesn’t want to take it back, he wants to relive this moment again and again and _again._ It’s a silent call, an inexplicable bond, and it’s a question, unspoken. His answer is wordless. The space between them is thin and it’s filled with the intermingling scents of cinnamon and flowers and the ocean wind and he loses himself in it - he barely notices one of her hands slide to the back of his neck, pulling him ever so slightly closer and it hardly feels real anymore. There are clouds muffling his thoughts and he feels it in every fibre of his being, in the fire in his veins and the thunderstorm raging in his chest.

Sorrel feels like she's surfacing from the ice cold sea; everything is sharp and clear and in painful focus. It's like being born again; she thinks. How did she spend so long _not thinking about this_ , when it was the most powerful thing she'd ever felt? It was like lightning under her skin and it crackles off every nerve ending. She pulls him closer because she needs _more_ , she is hungry and she might never have enough. The entire world could've stopped and ended right there and she wouldn't have noticed; there's nothing but her and him, ice and heat, cinnamon and salt. If she is an ocean then he is her shore; and she lets herself break upon him. She would trust him with anything in this moment. 

Her lungs burn for air and she breaks away and feels at once like she is drained, like she's missing a part of herself. She wants to kiss him again - she doesn't want to stop - but she opens her eyes slowly, afraid she may not see the same intensity of emotion in his. She feels _alive_. 

His eyes are alight with a flame of gold, a candle to the bonfire inside her and the burn of their skin, and his breath shakes when he finally lets out the air he has been holding. His fingers tremble on her cheeks and she presses into them, letting her lightning dance across him. The words slip from her, unbidden, unexpected, and she doesn't even know where they come from. 

"I love you." Because what else could it be? What other truth is there than this, right now? For a moment she wants to take the words back, in case it was too strong, too much, too sudden. 

His breath hitches and he presses his forehead against hers - in this space, time is meaningless, and it’s them. It’s no longer a dream, and he doesn’t take it back, he lets himself sink into this feeling, this reverie he does not want to leave. “I love you,” he hears himself say and it’s clear, it’s vivid, and it’s _theirs;_ he wouldn’t trade it for anything. She is his sun and his stars and the fire in his life that keeps him burning. 

It is the middle of the night; but it could’ve been high noon for how brightly she shines. Relief pours from her in cool waves and everything makes sense, everything is right. Her dream is living and breathing here in this room and she is _aware_ like all her senses have been turned up to eleven.

“That’s what I came here to tell you.”

“You picked a weird time to decide to love me.” The snark in his voice was gentle and teasing and so _him_. They untangle themselves from each other from their heap on the floor, movements slow, giddy, uncertain, like a faun learning to walk. Felix sits leaning against the side of his bed and Sorrel cross legged in front of him as he gently begins to comb the knots from her hair with his fingers. There is easy, comfortable silence, for a while.

“I should’ve made myself more presentable,” she laughs nervously, twirling one of her curls around her fingers. Sorrel is fearless, brave, certain of who she is; but now as she sits here she feels completely vulnerable, weak, stripped bare in his presence. She’s never been shy around him before, how much three words can change. 

His fingers twist braids into the loose curls and she can feel the warmth of his smile behind her. He's so gentle, not like Uncle Wind and Aunt Aryll when they used to give her 'pirate braids' as a child. His touch on her is so barely there, like he was handling flower petals, and she wants, _needs_ to kiss him again. But everything is so new, so fast, so unknown; it steals her breath and her sense and her rational side that she relies on so. 

Her white nightdress is silky and it pools around her legs; it’s as pure as snow against her sunkissed skin. He thinks it makes her look like a goddess, or a bride - his face flushes at that. “You’re perfect to me,” he murmurs, and his breath is warm on her bare shoulders. It feels so good to tell her that, he wants to tell her everything, he wants her to know just how radiantly she burns in his sky. But he knows her, he feels her nervousness and trepidation and he won’t, he can’t go any faster. He has waited and wished and loved this long, he can keep going a little longer.

He bends his head, and it drops on her shoulder. It’s smooth and she radiates the heat of a thousand stars, and the breath he lets out is wavering and full of things he doesn’t have the power to say. He presses his lips against the skin there, conveying a silent message, and he knows she understands him. She always understands him, whether it be his moods or the moments that find them in the forge, or out in the wild as they used to do as children. 

"You asked _why me_ and I-" The soft melody of her voice is _tremolo_ ; for one of the first times in her life she is struggling to speak. "I want to know the same. I want to know why you've l-loved me for s-so long." 

She trips over those last words that had slipped out so easily before. Something feels different now. Just moments ago they said it in the easy and persuasive fire of a kiss. Now they are apart again, seperated, their own persons once more. The knowledge he's loved her since they were small is not new but it weighs heavier on her now, somewhere between a comforting pressure and suffocating tightness on her heart. She's made him wait and she _hates_ it. 

He isn’t sure how to put it into words. He has fallen _in love_ and it’s something he has known for so, so long but he cannot bring himself to say it. Sorrel is too bright, too much, and he could spend hours poring over every word in their language and any other and still wouldn’t be able to shrink the existence of Sorrel enough to fit into sentences and phrases. She is more than words, more than things spoken aloud; she is the ocean crashing onto the shore, the tide pulling in and out over days and weeks and months, she is the glare of the sun and the rush of pouring rain and she is _a force,_ a force of nature - she reminds him of flowers, of fire, of things left unsaid in the dead of night, and he cannot say it. The best he can do is press his lips to her jaw in a silent apology, and hope that perhaps she may understand. 

The tremolo of her voice breaks into restrained tears and she shakes against him. 

"Why me, when I _hurt you_ for so long by ignoring what you felt? What I felt? I don't deserve you, Felix, I don't-" she pulls herself away even though her heart begs to stay pressed to his broad chest and sweet warmth. She has been such a fool and it's not fair on him at all. "I should never have come here tonight and woken you and cornered you and I'm so sorry, I am."

Hearing her cry snaps him in two. 

And it’s not supposed to be like that, she’s _not supposed to be like that,_ because the Sorrel he knows does not falter, she does not doubt - she speaks her mind with a proud voice and fire in her eyes and this? This tears him apart limb from limb - the sound of her crying, the sound of her breaking, it digs into his ribs and it takes root there, and it _hurts._ He wants to tell her to take it back, he wants to say _something,_ but he can’t. He is lost, and she, the burning light that guides him, is flickering in front of him, too violently to see. His hand reaches forward but he stops himself; the last thing he wanted to do was inadvertently push her away. 

He doesn’t know what it is inside him that does it but despite his determination, his hand reaches forward, it brushes sunset hair away from the nape of her neck, and he wants to say more. The words don’t come to him easily, but as he opens his lips, her face turns and her eyes are on him and _oh._

Can he keep this? Can he keep this vision of candlelit blue, hazy and muted, ethereal in its place among the dark of the room and the rumble of something - it’s far off, in the distance, and the promise of an oncoming storm is the last thing on his mind. He wishes he could keep the feelings, the certitudes that are associated with stolen moments in time, an ellipsis in the span of the years and the eternities he spends thinking of what to say and what to ask and how to say _I love you more than I can bear, I love you more than flowers and the ocean and the fire in the forge, I love you in ways I cannot comprehend._

Maybe it’s those unspoken questions that brings him closer to her, and the air is thick and he can reinvent his senses like this. His hand is in her hair, before he can think about it, before he can ask himself, _is this what you want?_ Because he already knows the answer. She’s soft to the touch and warm and full of _life_ and he will never be able to get enough of it. 

When she responds with a touch of her fingertips to his shoulders, he sucks in a breath and it’s harsh, it’s uncontrollable and he feels it resonate in his lungs and his chest, and she’s the one who kisses him first. The mess of his thoughts turn to static and all he can feel is the breeze through the window and the heat of her body against his and he doesn’t hate it - no, he doesn’t hate it at all. 

This is something he never dreamed he would have and it’s in his grasp, it’s in front of him and her hair is thick, curling around his fingers. All he can taste is ocean salt and something sweet like honey and it’s her. It’s Sorrel and she burns under his hands, burns with the passion of a wildfire and he revels in it. Her flames envelop him and reduce him to nothing but sacred ash. He cannot tell her how he loves her, he can only impress the words silently upon her lips and hope she can taste their intentions. 

The first kiss had been careful, cautious, almost chaste; this one is everything _else_. 

As soon as their lips meet again her world is brought back to startling clarity, liquid gold drips from him down into her soul and gathers in the void his first kiss left. His taste is sweet; like the spun sugar treats Uncle Wild used to make them, and she craves it, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip. The fear, the guilt, the shame of hurting him, it all dies away when they’re like this, when they’re a single soul together. She feels only him, all of him, she feels his clever words, his kind heart, his dry wit and bubbling laughter. He is hers, and only hers, she wants to lace his very essence to hers. She does not want to be just Sorrel, anymore. She wants to be Sorrel, his beloved, his and only his. 

Not breaking the kiss, not even for a moment, she finds the piece of sorrel behind her ear, crushed and warm from sleep, and slips it behind his own pointed ear. He is hers. Let everyone see. 

The only movement he makes is to move his hands to her waist and pull her closer - it’s a call for more proximity, it’s an unspoken request and his touch is light, it’s hesitant, so that she would have any opportunity to pull away from him. Here he’s alive and he _breathes,_ and he doesn’t want to hear the questions, the doubts in his head, so he lets her drown it all out. It’s a fever built up over the years and it’s hot and heavy and he cannot think; he feels it all in a startling wave of sensations, and it’s all because of her. 

The thrum of his heart is almost a background noise and he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t make a sound. She pushes into his hands, as close as she can get to him; her own hands grab for his shoulders and brush against his collarbone as his loose threadbare shirt shifts. The heat from that brush is effervescent, lingering and so good it nearly hurts. His lungs ache for air but he doesn’t want to break away, doesn’t want this to end, he wants her lips and her hands on him always. If it ends, he might wake up, and he can’t go back to life before, after this. Thunder rumbles again, louder, and when he cracks an eye open he can see light on the horizon. 

The fabric under his hands is silky smooth and it moves like static under his fingertips. He breaks away for no more than a moment, panting into the space between them with ragged breaths and it’s almost as loud as the storm. The gray and blue of the storm outside might be the prettiest he’s seen but nothing compares to what’s in front of him, and it’s an ache in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge. He wants to say something, wants to prove that there are words, but when he opens his mouth to speak, she puts a finger on his lips to quieten him, and the look on her face is _everything._

They’re tangled again, on their knees in the center of his room, a mess of limbs and love. His grip is still firm around her waist, like she’s an anchor in the storm, keeping him tied to reality. His curtains whip around the rattling glass in his windowpane as the wind picks up, howling and snatching at them in protest. The dark blue of the sky outside is rapidly becoming lighter despite the brooding clouds, and he knows they’re nearly out of time. What he wouldn’t give to curl back into bed by her side, and slumber next to her heartbeat. But they can’t not yet-

He moves her finger from his lips though it pains him to do so, and presses them close to her ear so he can speak in the barest of whispers.

“My Firefly,” the possessive words have the intended effect and she trembles like a leaf in the tempest, “I’d have waited a thousand years for you, don’t apologise.”

“I’m still sorry I made you wait, _Jackrabbit_ ,” She’s never had a pet name for him beyond ‘Lix, and it makes his limbs feel like he’s underwater. He’d admonish her for apologising, but his words have failed him again. She is his words, she is the air in his lungs and he cannot fathom a moment without her.

Wood creaks and startles them, a thunderclap shakes the house and a bolt of lightning slices the sky in two. There’s a crackle of electricity too close, _in the house_ , and before either of them can move to react there’s footsteps on the stairs and the door slams open.

The Hero of Legend looms in the doorway, his hands spitting flashes of lightning. He’s soaking wet and furious, cold steel eyes falling on them with a mixture of shock, rage and disbelief.

“Ravio!” he shouts, eyes not moving from the couple - Felix is _very aware_ of his hands still being around her waist and he feels very very small in the shadow of her father. “Ravio, get in here now!”

“Link, it’s barely dawn, _why are you in my-_ oh.” His father stops in the doorway, hair frazzled and eyes tired, and he _smiles at them._ Legend is incandescent at this response.

“Don’t just fucking grin, Rav! This is serious!”

“Seriously _cute_ , Link! Ah, to be young and in love!”

“They’re not even dressed!”

“They look clothed to me?”

Felix can feel his face burning and he looks anywhere in the room that doesn’t have a person. He knows he should probably move his hands but he doesn’t want to let go of her - the fact that she’s here is the only thing keeping him from running. He doesn’t look at her face, though. He doesn’t think he can bear the sheer embarrassment that is likely plastered across her features. 

“Sorrel!” Legend snaps, pushing Ravio aside since he was clearly not going to be of any help. “What exactly possessed you to sneak out of the house at some ungodly hour, _indecent and barefoot_ , to come here? What’s going on? Have you been- been- _fraternising?”_

“Father!” She squeals indignantly, face absolutely scarlet. Ravio is trying to contain laughter at his side, wheezing into his scarf. “I have not- We have not!”

“I didn’t raise you to sneak about the place after dark for illicit activities!”

“I had a nightmare!” She retorts, and Legend is silent and pale. He looks away from her to Felix, voice low.

“And what about you?”

“I’ll deal with my son, thank you, Link,” Ravio has recovered and his voice is now terse; he knows exactly how to temper Legend’s fury and he can see the panic and guilt and fear plastered on his son’s face. Legend means well, he always does, he just - well, Ravio thinks if he didn’t know better, he’d assume Legend bypassed childhood completely and went straight to bitter adulthood. Feelings are not his strong point.

“Felix,” Sorrel whispers urgently to him, as her father turns to spit a retort at Ravio. “Let’s go. Now.”

Felix cannot find the strength inside him to look up at her, but he raises his hands to hold on to her forearm - it's a silent cry for help, and he ducks his head, not looking in his father’s direction. Shame rises in his throat and he nods quickly, and the air is thick and constricting. What had been a dream isn’t quite as pleasant, and he wants to run away from it all, he wants to go where they cannot find him, but he’s done that before, hasn’t he? He’s sick of _running_ from his problems but the words he wants to say do not come to him at all, so he is forced to agree and go along with what she says - there is no better option and the world is still spinning. 

The old Sorrel is back, commanding and present and quick. She pulls him to his feet and dives for the window, hurtling herself out of it onto the ivy and sliding down the wall, now slick with rain. She grimaces as her feet sting but pulls him down after her, ignoring the angry shouts of her father. Of course he had to barge in where he had no business being - she was an adult, for Farore’s sake, nearly as old as her parents were when _she_ was born - and yet he still treats her like she’s just a kid.

Hand still firmly around his wrist they dart into the grey and blue of the dawn, down away from the forge. She doesn’t care what her father has to say, anymore, he doesn’t get to control what she does. She is Sorrel of the waves, of songs, of dreams, of _Felix_ and she will not be held back from what she loves any longer. There is only one place she can think to go. Where she wants to go. The rain plasters her flimsy summer nightwear to her frame but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t feel the cold, only the warmth from where she has hold of his wrist. They slip down the shallow cliff face onto the beach and as soon as her feet touch sand she feels like she is truly home.

Felix is still breathing rapidly beside her, his own shirt soaked through and hair dripping dark with rainwater. She would have swooned if it wasn’t for the rabbit-fear in his eyes and the trembling of his hands against hers. Sorrel grips him tightly in an embrace, and holds him there firm in the howling wind. The waves froth and crash behind them in ancient roars but she is not afraid, she is his and she is made of ocean as much as they are.

His first thought is that he doesn’t care about the rain that covers them from head to toe - he wraps his arms around her and clings to her in a desperate plea to _not let go._ He focuses on the sounds of her breaths, warm and constant against his skin, and the back-and-forth of the ocean spray, and the ringing in his ears subsides. The tension in his shoulders loosens and he feels as if he could fall apart right there in her arms. 

“I love you,” she mumbles into his neck, running a hand through his wet mop and rubbing his head soothingly. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position, this all could’ve waited until morning - I’m such an idiot.” She does nothing but hurt him with her foolishness and she wants to scream at the storm and at herself but it would do no good right now. “I used to think I knew everything, I used to think I always had a plan and I always knew exactly what to do; but I don’t, I wake up at Goddesses know what hour to break into your house to confess something I should’ve said years ago and now you’re here and you’re suffering and I messed up-” her words are bitter and hurtful again, “I don’t know how to fix this and I’m so sorry.”

Felix wants to tell her that her presence is enough, but his words are paralysed by guilt. There is a profound difference, he thinks, in knowing what to say, and saying them out loud. He knows here, in his heart, every word he wants to say to her; he wants to convey that nothing, _nothing_ would stop him from loving her - not this, not their parents, not the ocean or the sky above. He wants her to know that she is an irreplaceable part of his life; she has managed to weave herself in between moments and hours and days and filled the empty spaces. She doesn’t need to apologise, but he cannot bring his lips to part in an effort to say as much. 

Her embrace is fire amidst the downpour and the spray of the sea, and the ice around his heart thaws into liquid warmth. He hooks his arms around her waist and buries his face in hair of silk-spun flames, breathing in the scent of salt and flowers and familiarity. Every press of his fingers against the fabric of her nightdress was a message - a gentle attempt, as he tried to say _I love you_ in any way he can. 

When he finally finds his words, they are rough and his voice is barely audible over the storm and the ocean. “Don’t apologise, Firefly, you’re fine, I promise. I promise you, I don’t blame you for anything.” His voice is wavering but the words are steady and they take root in his mind. 

His reassurance cuts the binds around her soul and she feels so much lighter now he's finally spoken. The frantic apologies queued up in her throat die away in a sob. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to react to this feeling of loving and being loved back unconditionally. It's fuel to the wanton flames in her chest that she's repressed and ignored. The rain begins to lessen, now just heavy round raindrops that run off her curls, and the morning sun begins to fight its way through the clouds. Melody swirls in her heart and there is only one song she knows that speaks of love and longing; her parents' song, the lullaby that soothed her to sleep on nights she was wracked by bad dreams. The lyrics flow softly in the thrum of the storm and into the rough skin of his jaw where her lips are still pressed. 

"Sleepers wake, dreams will fade, although we cling fast…"

She rests her forehead on his and frees her hands from his hair, sliding them down to where he embraces her. She slips her fingers into his and clutches his hands tightly, pushing their clasped hands up between them as she sways to her song. She smiles as she sings, giddy and soft as droplets fall from her fringe onto their noses. By all the gods he couldn't love her anymore if he tried; only his beautiful, burning Sorrel would have them dance in the morning rain. 

"Stay with me, by my side, never leave…"

She feels the wet sand between her toes as she dances, pulling him closer to the spray as they spin. Her laughter between verses is bubbly and infectious and he can't help but smile back at her; he is hopelessly caught in her orbit. The sun is rising, the rain falls, they are soaked through and in yet indeterminate amounts of trouble with their parents and yet here they are, dancing barefoot on the beach as if nothing else in the world mattered. 

Once, in a place lost to the wear of time, there had been another beach, another sunrise, where her mother and father fell in love. That dawn had been bright and exotic, on a distant island of dreams, not the grey drizzle of Hyrule. Sorrel is like that dream maiden, with sunset hair and siren songs, but she has no fear and no hesitation in declaring her love. As the final words of her ballad leave her she pulls him into a kiss that feels like fire and it’s more than the candlelight from the room, it’s more than the blaze in the forge, it is fierce and dizzying and ravenous. Feet slide in the sand and they are falling amongst it, tripping over their own heels, and she clings to him like a lifeline. The seashells splay across her curls and the wet sand sticks to their skin and clothes but nothing is important right now, the only thing that matters is the world they have made between the two of them, and everything else is a blur, a mirage. 

Somewhere amidst the feverish daze of the morning, Felix murmurs her name against her lips, and she is wet and cold and hot and _burning_ all at once. The sand is rough against her bare shoulders but his touch is smooth, his touch is gentle and adoring and his voice is in a tone of reverence. His hair is wet and plastered to his forehead in dark curls and waves, and the pale sunlight dances across his eyelashes when she pulls back just enough to see; each strand is long and they resemble bold strokes of ink across pale parchment. 

Felix, she likes to think, is like nature itself. The shape of his shoulders beneath her hands are like the rise of hills, and his hair is soft and dark as thunderclouds, and she chases it with a fervour - this freedom, this sense of adventure that came so vividly with every breath they took; they move with a rhythm, an internal song that winds around a melody and a harmony, brought together by the drumming of their hearts - she can feel his in his chest, and it’s powerful, like the thud of hooves against the ground. She feels as if she could get lost in the expanse of his skin, here on the sand, with the ocean just within reach, and she can hardly tell where one begins and the other ends. It doesn’t matter to her, anyway. 

When they are one, everything is perfect, sweet and warm and syrupy perfect. Where do they go from here? The exhaustion from a half night of sleep creeps into her bones and even the fire between them doesn't stop her soaked form from shivering underneath him. They can't stay on this beach forever, as much as they want to. They could run away, but she knows it's hopeless the minute she thinks it; they have an army of uncles across every realm who would find them. Her father won't listen to reason whilst he's still this angry, unless she can get her mother to intervene. She'd gladly fight him over it but not with Felix there, she felt his panic in the room and she doesn't want to put him through that again. Even if they just stayed here, they'd be found eventually. 

The _now_ is perfection but the future looms like the last stormclouds on the horizon. 

"Felix," and he will never tire of hearing her say his name that way. "What now?" Perhaps she means right now, the present, how they will resolve this. But she's also asking the long term, how this changes their lives, their friendship. Nothing can be the same as it was, not now. They are in too deep, they are too far gone. She doesn't have a plan, the faintest clue where she is going for the first time in her life and it thrills her. The unknown is powerful and intoxicating when she is with him. 

“I don’t care as long as I stay with you,” is Felix’s quiet, breathless response. He’s leaning over her - it’s odd, as if he is shielding her from the ocean’s spray and the growing light of the sun as the morning grows brighter, more real. His face is flushed, aflame with scarlet, and he looks at her with something in those dark eyes that she can’t quite place. He brushes a sodden curl from her face and lets his fingers trail across her cheeks, traversing the soft ridges of her cheekbones and nose and tracing her cupid’s bow. He wants to commit her now, in this moment, to his memory always. He’s never had a chance to be so close, close enough to map the constellations that pepper her sunkissed skin from her face down across her bare shoulders. He wants to be one of those freckle-stars, aglow in her sky. He wants to tell her just how exquisite she is but words like ‘beautiful’ are just not enough. He never really believed in gods but she must be a gift from them. Every inch of her is sublime, the watery sunlight creeps around him and wreathes itself around her head like a halo, a halo of coral and seashells and starfire. The beads of rainwater filled with sun glitter like fireflies, running down the small of her neck and in rivulets down her arms.

The rabbits in them long to run; the notion passes unspoken between them in his gaze. His intrepid fingers move like a cartographer's quill down from her chin, following the curve of her neck and the incline of her collarbone. The skin here is a little paler, where her ribbon usually lies against it, and he can't help but plant a kiss right there against her throat. He has spent years thinking and imagining how he would lay his adoration upon her and he can't stop himself now. He can feel her tremble against him, from cold, fear, excitement, anticipation, he does not know. He goes to move away, worried he has moved too fast, when her hands are pressed against his chest and scrunched up in his shirt, holding him there. 

"You know - what I mean," she speaks between breaths, hot and shallow. "We can't stay here forever."

“I could.” He mumbles into a kiss on her forehead, and despite herself she laughs. There's a slight rustle in the beach grass far behind them and Sorrel can feel eyes on the back of her neck. Uncle Twilight. She doesn't have to see him to know. 

"They've already sent the cavalry out to find us," She sighs into his chest, pushing him up and off her so she can clamber to her feet, sending a glare into the shrubbery. She wonders how long he's been there and her face flushes a little at one of her uncles being witness to dancing and kisses and _their moment together._ Felix's startled eyes flick to and fro across the dunes, ears twitching slightly. "Wolfie." She mutters. 

Rused, he slips out from the undergrowth on the bluff and trots toward them, nosing their soaking clothes with a disapproving whine. He tries to nudge them back up toward the hills and forge beyond, but she bats him away gently. “Not with my father in the mood he’s in,” she states simply and Wolfie appears to consider this, but does not relent. He has a point; she is freezing now she doesn’t have Felix’s warmth around her and she’s absolutely _not_ kissing him again with her uncle here. She looks to Felix as he tries to suppress a shiver of his own.

“We’ll come back if you can keep my father out the way,” she bargains, and to her relief the wolf nods, trotting back away up the bluff. 

She watches him go and the sinking feeling in her chest eases up a little - a glance at Felix is proof enough that he feels the same. It’s only a short distance - all she has to do is reach over the space between them and his hand would be in hers. But she doesn’t - not yet, of course. That could come later and right now, in the dawn’s glow, she knows they need somewhere, _anywhere,_ to hide away from the residue of the storm and the wildfire in her father’s eyes. The ocean breeze is no longer as merciful as it had been, and it stings her skin, sending shivers through her; it’s cold and biting and Felix is too quiet. He’s too quiet and she misses the sound of his thundering heart and his voice and the way his breath felt like a kiss against her skin all in itself. 

The distance is too wide, but she leaves it, for now, and focuses on walking up the path as slow as she can manage - she feels like a sinking stone, a weight tethered to the earth, unable to move more than one step at a time, and she hesitates with each movement. In the distance she can hear heated words and she pauses, hidden behind the crest of the hill. Her father’s acerbic tone is recognisable at once but it is punctuated by the tired resignation of Twilight. She can’t catch exactly what they’re saying, but a third voice comes clear and loud and sharp over them both.

“Link, leave it. Now. You’ve done enough.” It’s her mother, and shame wells in her throat a little as she hears the anger in her voice. Her mother is always soft spoken, gentle, never tempestuous like this, and she hopes their actions haven’t made this much of a mess. The thick silence that follows is her answer, and a few long minutes later Twilight reappears on the crest of the hill. His eyes are dark-rimmed and he’s clearly very tired, running a hand through his bronze hair and jamming the other in the pocket of his tan leggings.

“Ravio’s happy to have you. I’d give your dad a wide berth for a few hours.”

“Thanks, uncle,” her head is bowed a little with shame and he laughs a little to ease the tension. 

“It’s nothing, little hare,” he ruffles her and Felix’s hair affectionately, and grimaces at the spray that comes off them. “Just do me a favour, and set your father off after breakfast, next time? I don’t get enough sleep as it is.”

“I’ll try,” she smiles, acutely aware of Felix’s silence behind her. She’s desperate to hold him, to comfort him.

“Now go and get dry, for Nayru’s sake,” he admonishes and hurries them up the hill to where Ravio is waiting. Sorrel turns to thank her uncle again, but he’s already vanished. 

The house is quiet - the air is heavy, although the tension has seeped away, just a little. Ravio stands patiently, and his voice is soft when he speaks. “Roo, you can head upstairs, if you like. You know your way around by now. I just need a word with Felix.” 

She hesitates, and Felix can see her reluctance, and knows she is restraining herself from disagreeing. Part of him feels the same - he wishes he could reach out and hold her hand, to keep her by his side. She begins to climb the stairs, but pauses and looks back at them.

“Please don’t be hard on him, this was all my doing. I came of my own volition; he had no idea. I was the one who asked him to - who initiated -” she falters, cheeks flushing red, “Look, it was all me, so please don’t blame him.” She darts up the stairs before she can change her mind and Felix is left alone with his father.

The tense air between the two of them is tangible, and Felix waits with an apprehensive downturn of his lips, and he averts his eyes - he can’t bring himself to look at the disappointment that surely lingers in the vibrant green. 

“Are you angry?” Felix hears himself ask, and his voice is hoarse. He doesn’t know why he’s asking.

Ravio makes an incredulous sound, prompting Felix to glance up. It’s a noise of disbelief, and his father takes a step forward to bring him in for a hug. It’s warm, and comforting, and Felix buries his nose into the familiar clothes, breathing in the scent and feeling his breath shake as he tries to hold back an apology he doesn’t need to say. “No, Felix, Little Bun. I’m not angry.” A hand cards through his hair and Felix is glad his face is hidden - he might have cried, otherwise. And he doesn’t want Ravio to see that.

After a few moments he breaks the hug and meets Felix's gaze, and Felix knows he can't break away. It’s piercing, and bittersweet - he’s not sure whether he wants to know _why._

"I'm just - worried, is all. Are you happy?" 

Felix nods. He’d expected something like this - what he hadn’t expected, though, is the urgent edge to his father’s voice, and it throws him off guard. He finds it so, so hard to keep holding his gaze, but letting go, giving up, turning away isn’t an option. He can’t do that when he knows he can answer the question with confidence. 

"Definitely? This is what you want? This is what _she_ wants?" There's something in his father’s tone Felix can't quite place and it creeps over him uneasily. "You wouldn't speak to me when you came home from the ranch last summer and I know something happened between you. I don't want you getting hurt again." 

“I’m happy,” is all he can say. He doesn’t elaborate because he’s not ready, he’s not at the point where he can put into words all that he feels for her, and the sheer magnitude at which he loves her. “And I like to think she’s happy too. I think she would tell me if she wasn’t.” 

At least, he thinks so. He doesn’t voice any doubts he might have; he’s confident, in some way, that he’s right. What they felt in the room, on the beach, what they _did_ together, it couldn't have all been for nothing. He can’t forget it now, the feeling of her skin under his hands - soft and warm - and the way his heart had raced when she had rested her forehead on his shoulder, when her wet sunset hair had curled against the crook of his neck. He can’t forget the hazy blue of the storm outside his window and the shelter the room gave them, and the candlelight that flickered over her cheek, outlining her face and the curve of her lips. He cannot forget the way his name sounded like honey on her lips and the weightlessness of it all. He wants to keep it all in his mind, and he hopes that she feels the same. 

Sorrel is like a spill of scarlet ink in the fierce waters of a raging ocean, and he loves her for it.

His father lets out a heavy breath and Felix tries to ignore the way it shakes - it’s almost imperceptible, and that’s his excuse. “Alright. Just… promise me you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, yeah? I just want to make sure you’re both happy.” 

It’s a warm, comfortable feeling that settles into his chest this time, and he hugs his father again, a little tighter than he normally would. The soft familiarity of his father’s robe is a comfort, and he indulges in it just for a few more minutes. “Yeah. Love you, dad.” 

His father’s grip is tight and secure and it’s a reminder that he is _home._ “I love you too, my Lucky Bun.” 

When Felix finally heads back upstairs, relaxed and comfortable and _warm_ , the sun is well and truly up. He raps on his bedroom door a few times, not wanting to catch her indecent; but gets no response. He cracks the door, just an inch, ready to tear his eyes away if she’s still getting dry - but he can’t stop staring. 

She’s sprawled out peacefully on his bed, already asleep. She’s wearing one of his spare nightshirts, oversized for her nimble frame, and he thinks it suits her better than her silk did. The sunlight pours through the shutters on his window and spills across her and the sight is a _work of art_. The imagery of her sets his blood aflame like nothing else. 

He creeps in, as silent as he can be, and climbs carefully onto the bed, curling himself around her. He could never admit it to another soul, but he’s imagined and prayed for a moment like this, where she might fall asleep next to him and he could hold her, just for a while. The reality is so much more incredible. She stirs a little, blinking up at him sleepily, and smiles, snuggling her head into his chest. Felix pulls her in close to him; he’s overcome with the urge to protect her, to keep her safe always, though he knows she can take care of herself. He’s also still afraid that he may wake up, and she’ll be gone, and this night would’ve been all some strange fever dream. His shirt on her mingles his scent with her own and it fills his nose and the back of his throat and it is heaven. Felix clings to her as he feels the lack of sleep catch up to him and drip leaden through his veins; the sun is warm and comforting, laying across them like a blanket, and he cannot fight it any longer. He holds his star-girl, his glitterbug, his _firefly_ close to his chest and falls into the oblivion of sleep.

Felix dreams and it’s a dream unlike any he’s had before, all vivid colours and sounds and her. Sorrel doesn’t dream; and for her, that’s a rare relief.

  
  



End file.
